


Talk to Someone

by OccasionalStorytelling



Series: Post-Endgame Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies), avengers endgame - Fandom
Genre: Angst, Sadness, Spoilers for Endgame, bucky needs some therapy, post-endgame feelings, trauma mention, winter soldier angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-07
Updated: 2019-05-07
Packaged: 2020-02-27 14:39:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18741106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OccasionalStorytelling/pseuds/OccasionalStorytelling
Summary: This is it...Bucky's asleep. Rocket has exactly one chance to take that metal arm off of him and escape unnoticed.Unfortunately, Bucky is NOT asleep. Bucky is depressed, and desperately needs to talk to someone.Post-Endgame fic, be aware of spoilers.





	1. Chapter 1

“Only got one shot at this,” Rocket grumbled, tossing the wrench back and forth between his tiny little raccoon hands.

 

In the living room, just around the corner from Rocket, sat Bucky, sprawled out on a couch, napping. Bucky always slept with a knife, but it was usually a 50/50 shot whether he was sleeping deeply enough to wake up and stab you. Bucky was snoring, meaning a high chance that he was under. Today was the day: Rocket was going to take that metal arm.

 

Rocket scampered into the living room, behind the couch. He slowly peeked his head over the top. Bucky had stopped snoring, but his mouth was open and his eyes were closed.

 

Rocket rubbed his hands together. This was going to be almost _too_ easy. Carefully positioning himself so that his weight was on the headboard of the couch and not on Bucky, but also so that Bucky’s face was visible, Rocket maneuvered himself into place. Bucky was not wearing a tank top today, so the shirt sleeve was coming off too.

 

Shirt cut through, halfway through detaching the arm, everything was going perfectly according to plan when Rocket looked up to check on Bucky who was _awake_ and _looking directly at him._

 

“AAAAAAAAH!” Rocket fell backwards off the couch, in a not-quite-dignified manner. Thank god Quill wasn’t around to see.

 

“Sorry.” Bucky mumbled, peeking back over the couch.

 

“You’re…not gonna stab me?” Rocket dusted himself off, still suspicious.

 

“Nope.” Bucky leaned back out of sight, flopping back onto the couch.

 

“Huh,” Rocket said, jumping back onto the top of the couch. Bucky laid in much the same position as he was napping.

 

“You couldn’t’ve waited ‘till I was in a tank top?” Bucky smiled weakly. The smile fell away, and Bucky stared listlessly into the distance.

 

“So…you’re cool if I take this,” Rocket glared, trying to catch Bucky’s eye. Bucky shrugged, metal arm mostly-detached and clanking uselessly as he did so. Not one to pass up an opportunity, Rocket continued the work of detaching the arm. He held it in both hands—it was large and heavy enough to be unwieldy, but it had some beautiful gold designs on it. _Why am I even taking this,_ Rocket thought. He shook it off. “I can, um. I can give you back the sleeve, maybe you can sew it back on, or something.”

 

Bucky didn’t respond, or look at Rocket. His face was carefully blank.

 

Rocket looked at the door, his planned escape route. Groot was not far away, ready to see if he could wear Bucky’s arm himself. Nebula was also in line to try out the arm. It was gonna be _hilarious._

 

Rocket looked back down at Bucky. He wasn’t exactly trying to go back to sleep, but he also didn’t look like he was planning on moving anytime soon. He looked about as miserable as a guy with no facial expression can look. Rocket sighed, and sat down on one of Bucky’s knees.

 

“All right, kid. Wanna talk about it?”

 

“I’m 70. You’re a raccoon. You got, what, four years on you?” Bucky smiled half-heartedly. Rocket felt himself getting angry for a second, but…it didn’t feel right. It was almost like…

 

“Why did you say that?” Rocket asked, slowly. Bucky didn’t answer. “No, really. Why?” Bucky looked at Rocket for a long moment, as if judging whether or not they were going to have this conversation.

 

“Figured if I said the right thing, you’d assume I was fine and leave.” Bucky titled his head all the way back, over the side of the cushion—from this position Rocket couldn’t see his eyes. Rocket shuddered. Fuck. They were going to have to talk about feelings.

 

“We don’t have to talk,” Bucky said, not looking up. “Take the stupid arm and go.” Rocket sighed.

 

“See, I’m feeling like we gotta talk, based on how you’re acting,” Rocket said, trying to maintain as much of his “tough guy” attitude as he could. Bucky didn’t respond to this. “Maybe I’ll just sit here until you feel like talking.”

 

“Maybe I’ll fall asleep and you’ll leave.” It came out listlessly. _Come on, big guy, almost there,_ Rocket thought. _What’s bugging you?_

 

“What’s the point of being awake?” Bucky finally said. It came out with almost no emotion. Almost. “It doesn’t even matter if Steve wanted to go back in time to save me from Hydra, because that’s some other timeline and it won’t make these memories go away.” He balled his fists over his eyes. “A lot of it isn’t even memory. Just…flashes. You know, not to be emo, but…there’s pain. I remember being cold. I remember throwing up. I remember drowning…I remember the split-second after I shot someone, I don’t even know who…but I remember thinking _This is the one. After this, they’ll stop hurting me._ But they never did, and I was never good enough for them, and I don’t _want_ to be good enough for them, they’re bad guys, but…” Bucky let out a long, slow breath. His voice didn’t crack or anything, but he sounded like if he kept going he was going to cry.

 

Rocket didn’t know what to say. What was he even _supposed_ to say to something like that?

 

“Maybe you should talk to someone about this,” Rocket said, quietly. “Sam, he’s…he works with vets, right? PTSD stuff?”

 

“I’m not going to talk to one of my _friends_ like he’s a free therapist. That’s not how friendships work,” Bucky said, still not looking at Rocket.

 

“Get a real therapist?” Rocket shrugged.

 

“Yeah, I guess so,” Bucky sighed, slumping. “Maybe I’ll get around to it.”

 

Rocket stayed quiet. That felt like a _I will not get around to it, end of conversation_ sort of statement, but the air still felt…weird. Like Bucky had more to say…? But he didn’t keep talking, and after a few moments, Rocket inched himself off Bucky’s knee and onto his chest, trying to wrap the soldier in a furry raccoon hug. Bucky tensed for a moment, looking at Rocket, then hugged back, one-armed (Rocket felt deeply embarrassed for removing the other arm.)

 

“Steve always gave the best hugs,” Bucky said, softly, “and now I’ll never get another one.”

 

 _Oh fuck,_ Rocket thought. _Someone who is better at this than me has GOT to talk to this guy._

 

“Look, you stay here, I’m gonna go get someone, all right?” Rocket tried to look Bucky in the eye. “You gotta get this off your chest. You gotta get _me_ off your chest, ha ha…”

 

Bucky dropped his hug like Rocket burnt him, going stiff. “Yeah, sorry. I didn’t mean to—“

 

“No, the hug was fine!” Rocket stammered, trying to reassure him. “I just…I…”

 

“See you later,” Bucky said, shifting so that Rocket and the metal arm fell off his chest and onto the floor. Rocket picked himself up and scratched his head. Bucky had turned away so that he couldn’t look at Rocket anymore. Rocket picked up the arm and ran back down the hallway.

 

_Metal arm shenanigans later. I gotta get someone to talk to him._


	2. Chapter 2

Bucky laid sprawled out on the living room couch, underneath where several daggers were stuck in the ceiling. He’d thrown them up there. He was surprised to find more than 7 daggers hidden on his person. Why did he have so many? He felt a little naked after throwing them up on the ceiling like that, but who was going to attack him here, in the Avenger’s complex- building type thing?

 

Natasha sat on the edge of the couch, looking at him. She was dressed in black, with dark red hair, like she’d worn back when he first got to know her. She seemed at ease. Bucky wasn’t.

 

“It was Peggy, wasn’t it? It had to have been,” Natasha smirked.

 

“I said, I don’t want to talk about it.” Bucky groaned. He tried plugging his ears, but that never worked. Plus, he only had one working hand right now. Thanks, Rocket. He settled for holding a pillow over his face.

 

“If you suffocated right now, I wonder who would miss you,” Natasha mused. Bucky hastily threw the pillow off himself. He didn’t have a big enough knife to stick it to the ceiling, but he could at least throw it across the room.

 

“Why are you here?” Bucky asked. Nat smiled.

 

“God, the super-hearing…” It was the raccoon’s voice, from out in the hallway. Bucky hadn’t even heard him coming, he was so focused on Natasha. “Yeah, I’m back, big guy,” Rocket mumbled, sounding sheepish. “I brought Ant Guy.”

 

“It’s Scott, I said you guys can call me—oh my god,” Scott Lang jumped a little bit. “Why are there so many knives in the ceiling?”

 

“Why don’t you tell them?” Natasha asked. “I wonder if they’d kick you out for damaging their property.”

 

“Sorry,” Bucky mumbled, sitting up from the couch. “Yeah, that was me. I’ll fix it, I have some tools somewhere—“

 

“Don’t worry about it, there’s enough money Stark left in this building to keep it running forever,” Rocket shrugged.

 

“Not if you keep throwing knives at it,” Natasha said.

 

“Shut up,” Bucky said, very quietly. Natasha winked out of existence—she was never there in the first place. She was dead. Eventually, everyone was going to be dead.

 

“Hey, I’m sorry, pal, we don’t have to talk about Stark,” Rocket eased back, holding up his hands.

 

“What _do_ you want to talk about? I’m fine,” Bucky said, doing his best to look the part.

 

Rocket looked at Bucky, then at Scott, then back at Bucky. “Um…” Rocket hesitated. “I found a guy who’s actually been to a real therapist. I brought him here. Bye.” Rocket scampered away. Scott stood a little ways off, not sure what he was doing. Bucky sighed and leaned back down.

 

“I told Rocket, I’m fine,” Bucky said.

 

“He told me you were fine,” Scott said, coming around the living room so he could see Bucky properly. He almost tripped on Bucky’s thrown pillow, but caught himself just in time before he could crash into a bookshelf. “But also, I know a guy, he specializes in super-hero therapy. He’s had a lot of work since…the snap, with ordinary people dealing with these super-hero situations, but he’s the guy I go to when it starts being…a lot.”

 

Bucky didn’t respond.

 

“Hey, I’ve seen some shit too, I was trapped at sub-quantum size for—“

 

“Not to be mean, but I don’t care what you’ve been through,” Bucky growled. He would have stood up if he had more energy. “You have no idea what life is like for me, you have no idea what I’ve been through.” His mind started playing a highlights reel, “the best of what Hydra can do to a person,” practicing what he was going to say to Scott. Make him _understand_ why Bucky wasn’t going to talk to anyone, why Bucky was hurting so badly. Then again, it was bad enough when Bucky had to live through it. He wasn’t going to lay all that hurt on some guy with a child, not when that guy had fought with Cap trying to protect Bucky after that whole thing with…everything hurt. Almost every memory hurt, and the ones before he was captured by Hydra were too fuzzy to make sense.

 

“Talk to someone,” Scott said, leaving the room. He left a paper business card on the couch. Bucky didn’t pick it up.

 

“Everyone leaves you,” Natasha sang. “Even Steve didn’t want to be around you, that’s why he went to be with Peggy…that’s why he left you in Wakanda for so long…that’s why he didn’t look for you when you fell off the train.”

 

Bucky screamed, just within his own head, where no one could hear.


End file.
